Disoriented
by Miss Weather
Summary: Things don’t go exactly as planned when Shawn helps Lassiter out on a case. Mayhem, head trauma, unabashedly h/c .
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimers—**This is fan fiction. No profit involved. Just taking the boys out for a little fun.

**Feedback-** sure

**Spoilers--** None that I can think of

**Main Characters--** Shawn, Lassiter. Gen fic. No pairings. (No slash except for what you bring yourself)

**A/N: **This is more or less an exercise in h/c; anything resembling a plot is purely coincidence. I've taken some liberties when it comes to police procedure, medical tidbits and such. Special thanks to my wonderful beta, k.

**Summary—Things don't go exactly as planned when Shawn helps Lassiter out on a case. (Mayhem, head trauma, unabashedly h/c).**

**Title : Disoriented**

**by: Miss Weather**

OoOoChapter 1 oOoO

(Carlton POV)

"_Of all the things I lost, I miss my mind the most." Mark_ Twain

Very few things in Carlton Lassiter's life came easily for him; not the Academy, not work, and not love. He understood and could accept that life brought with it a myriad of challenges. But waking up wasn't ordinarily one of them. Usually, he wouldn't have to put any extra effort into it. He'd just wake and go off on his _not-quite_ merry way.

_But not today. _Today, there was darkness and pain. Lots of pain. Not just any pain, but an agonizing, searing pain that had taken root somewhere in his skull.

He groaned softly, as his skull seemed to thrum in time

THUMP THUMP THUMP

It was an incessant racket reverberating throughout his skull. One series followed by another.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Paralyzed by pain in his head, he pondered the likely causes of the noise: jackhammers, herd of elephants, a Jamaican steel drum band, or perhaps someone hammering giant nails into his brain. All of them seemed possible, until the more logical side of his brain had slowly started to chime in and dismissed such notions. It gradually occurred to him that the noise was coming from within his head.

He tried to sift through his memories of the day, but was unable to recall why his head had imploded, leaving him in this ungodly state. This lapse of memory should have alarmed him more than it did, but alarm required energy and he didn't have enough of it at the moment.

Second nature and training started to kick in at a perversely slow speed. _Come on, Carlton, time to ascertain your position and situation_. Hoping that positive thinking and a little encouragement would help. However, nothing in his arsenal of training worked. The headache simply made it far too difficult for him to focus.

_Ok_ay, _skip the position for now, onto the situation. Situation unknown, but so far doesn't look good. _

The headache that greeted him upon his return to consciousness lingered strongly. He could tell that the skull-crushing pain had originated from somewhere at the front of his head. It throbbed intensely, radiating from his skull into his face and neck. Everything hurt. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't think.

_Best to rest_, Lassiter figured. _Rest and recover, try again later_.

Just as he started to drift off, he thought he heard something new, something other than the racket in his head. He knew it was close, but couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from.

_No_, _not just a sound, a voice_. _Someone was near or here-- wherever here was._

Lassiter couldn't decide on whether to be relieved or wary about this newfound information. Choosing neither, he settled on being mildly curious, as any good "Head Detective" should be at all times.

He listened carefully, but the voice was too muffled to understand. Deciding to give it another try, he held his breath, trying to isolate the noise from the jackhammers pounding his skull. He was briefly reminded of a game that he and his cousin had played during childhood, an underwater version of the "telephone game" that entertained them for hours on end. He remembered the frequent dives down to the bottom of the pool and having brief, but animated conversations underwater. The ultimate goal was to guess what the other was saying, which was inevitably followed by uproarious laughter when the guesses were way off.

Lassiter quickly pushed the unexpected memory aside and listened as intently as he had as a child. But he found it to be just as useless, he still couldn't understand. Fatigue and frustration were taking their toll and Lassiter resigned himself to the fact that it simply took too much effort to listen. Content to ignore the voice for now, he focused on getting a little rest. With a deep breath, he allowed himself to be drift off, hoping that that it would bring a respite from the pain.

However, the soft, garbled voice had other ideas. He felt his aggravation grow as the voice rose in volume and clarity. Pain flared as something roughly jostled his head._ Son of a bitch! _There was another harsh movement, followed by a sharp poke to his head. He wasn't a patient man, by any means, and was not going to tolerate this kind of abuse. _This needs to stop right now_.

Whatever was touching his head was persistent. Another intense flash of pain erupted, as his head was buffeted by more jarring movements. With renewed determination, Lassiter decided that it was time to get the voice's attention.

"Stop."

He had hoped to shout the word, but instead it came out more like a harsh whisper. Not sure if the voice had heard him, he tried again with a little more force. "Stop."

The voice and contact stopped abruptly. _Good, someone heard him_.

"Sleeping beauty wakes. About time. I was beginning to think I would have to talk to myself all night long."

Before he could process what was said, he realized that he knew that voice.

"Spencer?"

"No, Prince Charming," came a quick quip that seemed to echo in his head.

The man chattered on about something asinine, pineapple smoothies or something equally ridiculous. It was definitely Spencer. He couldn't follow Spencer's nonsense when he was well and in the right frame of mind, and at this moment, he was neither. He found that it was best to ignore the younger man whenever possible.

"Lassie. Lassie, Oh Lassie… Um. Carlton?"

It was Spencer's use of his first name that captured Lassiter's attention. It wasn't the typical cocky, obnoxious tone of voice that he had come to know and loathe. Instead, it was hesitant and a bit panicky, completely unlike the Shawn Spencer that Lassiter knew. He waited and listened, trying to figure out what would make Spencer hesitate.

"Come on, wakie-wakie," Spencer said in an annoying loud voice, gently tapping Lassiter's cheek.

That did it. He had tried his damnedest to ignore the idiot's incessant chatter, but now there was shouting and tapping. And if Lassiter couldn't get Spencer to stop, then he decided that he'd simply move somewhere else; preferably anywhere that was Spencer-free.

"Spencer," he mumbled as he opened his eyes and started to shift his body, "Will you SHUT UP!"

Before he could move himself he was struck by a massive wave of vertigo. His world tilted violently. Clenching his eyes tightly, he was overwhelmed by an entirely new level of pain and nausea.

_I will not be sick in front of Spencer. I cannot be sick in front of Spencer_. He repeated his mantra for what seemed like an eternity. Thankfully, his stomach seemed to settle on its own and the need to vomit all but disappeared.

Taking several shaky breaths, he decided to forego any movement for the moment and instead tried to get his bearings. He could tell from that cold, dull ache in his shoulder that he was lying on his side on a concrete floor. His head was supported by something soft, but not quite comfortable. He tried to catch his breath, as he felt a strong hand awkwardly pat his arm.

It took several tries for his eyelids to un-stick, but once open, Lassiter found a surprisingly subdued Shawn Spencer staring at him.

"You okay?"

Not sure of how to answer the question, Lassiter settled on small, "Yes."

"Yeah, right. Um… listen, you're hurt. Keep still. You can be a prickly porcupine and yell at me once we get out of here. For now, stay still."

Content with following the advice, Lassiter asked, "What happened?"

"Someone decided to use your head for target practice."

"Huh?" He blinked and slowly reached a hand to his head to inspect the damage.

Spencer frowned as he batted Lassiter's hand down. "Bullet grazed your head. Don't touch. I don't want you to ruin my handiwork."

Alarmed, Lassiter was immediately on guard. He tried to think back and found that he couldn't recall any of the events that led up to his current state. He gently rubbed his hand over his face, trying to break through the fog that he had settled around him.

"Huh? How? Who?" he asked, clearly dumbfounded.

"You zigged when you should have zagged," Spencer said in a matter of fact tone. "You can blame Brackett for this." He made a quick gesture towards Lassiter's head before he stood to pace.

Curious and undeterred, Lassiter reached for his bandaged head a second time. He lightly probed the makeshift bandage with his fingers, careful to avoid the wound. He rubbed his fingers together as he hit a large sticky patch. _Blood_. Disturbed, he continued to run his hand along the thick cloth, tracing the path from his hair to his face. A rather unpleasant realization hit him as he retraced the bandage with his fingers.

"Socks?" Lassiter choked out with an equal mixture of shock and disgust. "You bandaged my head with your socks?"

Spencer snorted, "How's that for gratitude? So very typical, Lassie. You should be grateful that you have a Boy Scout, like me, tending to you. My amazing skills and resourcefulness are all that's keeping your brains from leaking out of your head." He sighed dramatically, as he placed a hand over his chest. "And this is the thanks that I get."

"No way you were a Boy Scout."

"I was for six months before I was kicked out." Spencer chuckled at the admission and added, "Needed to use what we had available, my socks, your tie and handkerchief. Would you prefer I let you bleed?" He grumbled something softly to himself that Lassiter couldn't make out. He obviously hadn't expected an answer from the detective, as he continued to pace the tiny room.

"No. How long was I out?" Lassiter asked, though he wasn't sure that he wanted to know.

"Not too long."

"How long, Spencer?" he ordered. He felt more alert than he had before, even though the headache had remained.

"Couple of hours. Nothing to worry about," Spencer said quickly.

He knew that to be a lie, and a patently obvious lie. _So unlike Spencer,_ he thought. It was just as he suspected, his situation was fairly serious: deep wound, loss of consciousness, nasty concussion. _Not good at all._

Spencer's back was now to the detective, he was clearly searching for something outside of Lassiter's limited vantage point.

"Where are we?" Lassiter asked, deciding to take some interest in their current accommodations.

From his position on the floor, he could see that they were in a small, dimly lit room. There was a dusky grey wall, located not more than four feet from his head, but the rest of the room lay hidden beyond his view. Careful not to move his head, he glanced sideways to see a series of cardboard boxes and small crates scattered along the floor.

"Storage room."

"A storage room, where? Damn it! Where are we?" he barked out with a menacing tone or as menacing as the incredible ache in his head would allow. He was surprised that his question sparked such a response in the fake psychic. Spencer's eyes went a bit wide, as the younger man briskly walked to face him.

"You don't know?" Spencer asked. The hint of worry had seeped into his voice again.

Lassiter closed his eyes, trying to recall where he was and how he got here, but came up empty handed. No memories. Nothing This frustrated him more than he wanted to admit, but the sharp pounding in his skull kept his emotions in check.

He heard Spencer mutter something. "What?" Lassiter asked, belatedly, realizing that he was being spoken to.

"I said, what's the last thing you remember?" Spencer repeated slowly and with an unusual amount of emphasis placed on each word.

Lassiter groaned, as he tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position. An uncomfortable silence had filled the small storage space. Much to his disgust, his thoughts were more than a little fragmented. Everything felt jumbled, scrambled. _Probably like my head_, he mused.

"Preparing Detective Lewis for his undercover duties for the stolen arms case," he answered

Spencer nodded. "Do you remember what day that was?"

"Yeah. Wednesday, the 11th," Lassiter said, feeling uneasy about his situation and Spencer's demeanor. Unlike the previous lie, Spencer gave nothing away; his poker face was firmly in place. Lassiter knew it wasn't Wednesday, but for the life of him couldn't recall what day it was.

"Nothing else?"

Lassiter was tired of being prodded. He could feel exhaustion sink in again, as his vision grew hazy. Awareness started to leave him, and he would have dozed off had it not been for Spencer's snapping fingers.

He sighed. "I don't know. I'm tired. My head hurts."

He hated admitting any weakness to the man that was now seated before him. Carlton Lassiter did not tolerate weakness, especially his own. But above all else, he despised putting any amount of trust into this utter nuisance of a man.

"Enough already. Tell me." The ache in his head had intensified once more and he had no desire to play games with Spencer.

The answer was light and full of forced cheer as Spencer announced, "We've found ourselves in quite the pickle. It's Friday night and we're trapped in a self-storage facility, warehouse thingie."

_Friday night. Couldn't be._ Lassiter tried to wrap his mind around this, but found that he couldn't. The more that he tried to focus on the missing days, the more aggravated he felt.

"Trapped? Trapped, how? What the hell is going on Spencer?" he growled, taking his anger out on the only target in range.

"Easy there, Lassie. Don't get yourself into a tizzy. Nothing that I can't handle being the remarkable psychic that I am."

_Typical_, Lassiter thought. He knew that the younger man couldn't be trusted to take anything seriously. There was always a flippant remark, silly retort or quick comeback. Spencer lacked any sense of responsibility or duty. And he knew that it would be up to him if they were to escape their current situation.

"Oh, I see. And are we relying on one of your little visions to get us out of this mess?" Lassiter scoffed.

Rolling his eyes, Spencer retorted. "Ha-Ha. Funny Lassie. I get that you don't understand or appreciate my gift, but it is a gift nonetheless. Come on, dude, trust in the psychic."

He cringed at the other man's attempts at levity and decided that he needed to take charge of this situation. These pointless conversations weren't providing him with any useful information. Slowly shifting his legs and arms, Lassiter started to push himself up from his side-lying position.

"Whoa! What are you doing?" Spencer asked.

"Trying to sit up," Lassiter answered through clenched teeth.

"Um, come again? Have you lost your mind?"

"Shut up, Spencer. Just shut up."

Truth be told, it was probably a very bad idea. But he figured that it was unlikely that he'd feel worse in sitting than he did lying on floor. So, "up" was an option. He had secretly hoped that if he sat up, he'd be better able to focus in on the world around him. His desire to drift off again was just too great from his current position.

He moved slowly, but clearly wasn't going to make any progress without help. No amount of determination was going to change that. He was just too dizzy and too damn weak.

Seeing his predicament, Spencer had moved to his side, and carefully helped him sit upright. Unfortunately, as soon as he was up and seated, Lassiter felt his body sway. His head was too heavy to hold up, and he briefly wondered if someone had replaced it with a bowling ball. Once his head started to tilt to the side, so went the rest of his body. Unexpectedly, Spencer must have noticed the problem and moved some of the larger boxes over for Lassiter to use as back and side supports.

_That went well_, he thought bitterly, as he glanced down at the boxes that propped his back and the side.

The process of moving had taken more out of Lassiter than he'd care to admit. His vision continued to grey at the edges, as the pounding in his head maintained its tempo. He closed his eyes, trying not worry over how winded that little move left him.

"You know that was stupid," Spencer said quietly from his seated position. "Very stupid."

Forcing his eyes open, Lassiter decided to scope out their situation. He slowly scanned the room for any exits. There was a windowless metal door situated along the one wall. He guessed it was locked from Spencer's earlier comments. No windows, no vents, no way out.

As he glanced down to his lap, his attention was captured by the state of his suit. Much to his dismay, his shirt and pants were completely ruined. He knew nothing would get out the various brown and red stains that covered them. Turning his gaze to Spencer, he noticed similar dark stains on the man's knees and splotches of red coating the younger man's hands.

"You hurt?" he asked gruffly, annoyed with himself for not inquiring earlier.

Startled, Spencer looked down at his hands, then wiped them vigorously on his pants. "Me? What? No, I'm good. How are you doing?" The younger man turned fully to inspect the bloodied bandage wrapped around his head.

Lassiter sighed and closed his eyes, avoiding the other man's scrutiny. He didn't want to answer that question. He wanted to go home, perhaps stop off first to get his head stitched. But after, he figured he'd go home and sleep the weekend away in his warm, comfortable bed.

"So, what now?" he asked, trying to subtly to change the subject.

"EHH- UHHH!"

Ignoring the Detective's startled expression, Spencer continued on, "Nope. Sorry, that's not how the game is played. See, I ask you a question and then you answer. You didn't answer the question, and therefore cannot ask another question. I'm sorry to say that you have forfeited all of your prizes. Would you like to try again?"

Despite the whimsical tone of his voice, Lassiter could tell that other man was anxious. There was a different kind of intensity in Spencer's gaze, one that he hadn't seen before, something clearly troubled him. It slowly dawned on him that despite the jokes and attitude, _the_Shawn Spencer was worried. Lassiter was intrigued by this new development.

The obnoxious pain in the ass that he had come to loathe was actually unsettled by their situation. Lassiter couldn't blame the kid; Spencer was trapped with a badly concussed man who couldn't recall the last two days. Not to mention, that said injured person hated his guts.

_It wasn't looking too good for SBPD's resident psychic. Not looking good for either of us. _

Lassiter couldn't help but chuckle. He wasn't sure why he found the idea of Spencer being worried so amusing, but he did. His chuckling turned into a muted laugh, as the younger man's eyes went wide in surprise.

With a cocky smirk, he said, "How sweet, Spencer. You're worried about me."

Spencer grinned widely. "Of course not. But, I don't want to tell Jules that her partner kicked off because he's a stubborn jackass, now do I? Besides, I have taken it as my solemn duty, as psychic extraordinaire and resident Boy Scout, to get us out of here."

"Oh, is that all?"

Spencer's mood sobered quickly as he shook his head. "You look like shit."

Surprised by the other man's candor, he turned his chin slightly to make better eye contact. Once more, he found a very serious Spencer seated to his side.

Sighing deeply, slouching against the one of his support boxes, Lassiter offered, "Yeah, I feel like it too."

"How's your head feeling?"

"Like someone shot me."

Spencer laughed slightly. "Yeah, I'm sure. But you know what I mean."

"My head is killing me. I'm dizzy, nauseous, and I can't remember how I got here."

He had no idea why he was telling all of this to the man seated next to him. Though, that wasn't true; logically, Lassiter knew why. Much as he hated to admit it, he would need to rely on Spencer, so it was probably best not lie to the younger man.

Somewhat satisfied, Spencer nodded. "I can't help with the first three, but I can help with the last."

Lassiter tried to listen to the events that lead up to their predicament, but found himself zoning out. He hadn't realized that he had stopped listening to the other man until Spencer hit his shoulder.

"Lassie, come on. Stay awake for a while. Have you even heard a word that I said?"

The exhaustion that he felt earlier had returned, more compelling than before. He knew he wouldn't be able to resist the call of sleep this time. His body below his neck felt numb, but not unpleasantly so. His felt his eyelids close on their own accord.

"Tired," he slurred, allowing himself to drift into unconsciousness.

Before the pain-free darkness greeted him, he heard Spencer sigh and say, "Ok. Get some sleep. I'll wake you again in an hour."

**TBC**

**OoOoOoO**

**Let me know what you think! This is my first fic in this fandom. Critiques, comments, feedback are welcome. Thanks! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimers et al**-- See Chapter 1

**A/N**: A HUGE thank you to all of you that left reviews! The feedback is most appreciated. Special thanks again to my extraordinary beta, k.

**On a quick geographical note**- I've taken some very vague "creative liberties" with geography. I'm from NY and haven't traveled west of the Mississippi. I "googled" Santa Barbara and points in and around there, but if I'm way off base, please let me know.

**A guilt-ridden Shawn, a wounded Lassiter… Without further ado, Chapter 2. **

* * *

**Disoriented **

**by: Miss Weather**

**  
**

OoOo Chapter 2 oOoO

_Anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment.- Finagle's Law _

Shawn sighed deeply as he stared at the slouching detective seated next to him. _One hour of rest Lassie, no more_. Even with his skills of observation, he couldn't tell if the older man was asleep or had merely succumbed to his head injury.

Shawn couldn't help but grin at that odd scene before him. If only circumstances were different, the entertaining scene of a sleeping Lassiter being propped up by two large boxes would have provided him with enough Lassie jokes and stories for a month.

"But they aren't," he reminded himself with a frown.

Shawn stood and moved closer to inspect his "handiwork," carefully stepping over the man's outstretched legs. It looked ridiculously uncomfortable to Shawn and he couldn't figure out why Lassiter had insisted on sitting up.

_Stupid, stubborn idiot_.

He studied Lassiter, making mental notes of his coloring and breathing. The detective's face was a sickly, pale gray. His head was resting heavily against the boxes, leaving the right half of his face exposed. Despite the makeshift bandages, his face was coated with blood. Shawn's frown deepened as he saw fresh blood had soaked through the cloth. Cursing their luck for perhaps the hundredth time this evening, he scoped the room for more bandage material.

_Head wounds bleed a lot, don't panic_.

Walking over to his discarded sweatshirt, he stepped onto the bottom of the shirt and quickly tore off the thin hood. It wasn't much in the way of fabric, but he figured any little bit would help.

Shawn turned back to his patient. "Time to fix your bandages, Lassie."

He spoke because he had to. An uncomfortable silence had filled the room again, making the room feel even more claustrophobic than it had before. Shawn didn't like the quiet. _Never had, never will_. He had made it his mission to never leave any space quiet for long. To his delight, this served as a major source of annoyance for his family, friends, teachers, coworkers and employers (both past and present).

Shawn squatted in front of Lassiter to begin the process of adjusting the saturated bandages. He caught a glimpse of the wound and winced in sympathy for the unconscious detective.

The wound streaked from far side of his forehead to just above his temple, near his hairline. It was long and deep, surrounded by bruised and bloodied skin. As he replaced his makeshift bandage, he noticed that the bleeding had slowed somewhat since the first bandaging attempt about two hours ago. He heard Lassiter groan, as he firmly pressed down on the cloth and finished securing his bandages. Shawn eyed him throughout the process and was a bit disappointed when the other man didn't regain consciousness at any point. With the bandages more or less in place, he gently maneuvered the remnants of his sweatshirt under Lassiter's head.

Satisfied, Shawn stretched and started to pace again. Contrary to his earlier comments, he was worried, very worried. Things had gone to hell faster than he could have imagined. Lassiter was badly injured; Lewis and Brackett were probably on their way out of the country. They were trapped with no weapons, no water, no food, no cell phones and no way of calling for help.

"Odds are definitely against us, eh, Lassie?" Shawn quietly asked the other man.

He wasn't expecting an answer and continued on with his pacing. His spirits were somewhat higher after talking to Lassiter. _Somewhat._ He was still very concerned about the memory loss, fatigue and intense headache. Henry Spencer didn't raise an idiot. Shawn could easily see that the detective was in extreme pain. Unlike the TV shows, he knew that Lassiter wasn't going to make a spontaneous recovery. He had his fair share of accidents (motorcycle and otherwise) and knew a bad concussion when he saw one. Or at least, he hoped it was just a concussion and nothing more serious.

Shawn had been standing next to Lassiter when things went to hell. Gunfire had forced them to seek refuge behind a bunch of wooden crates. Lassiter provided cover fire, _a stalling tactic_, hoping that the "bad guys" would run out of ammo first. It was just the two of them and only one of the "good guys" had a gun.

In the blink of an eye, everything had changed for the worst. Shawn had been distracted by a series of very close shots, forcing him to cover his head as splinters went flying. He never saw it happen. When he turned his head to look back to check on Lassiter, he found the man lying on the floor.

Shawn flinched, recalling the scene. He had stared in mute horror, as the blood covered the man's head, spreading slowly on the concrete floor. He had been positive the detective was dead.

"Damn. Damn it. Damn it!" Shawn shouted as he kicked a small box.

He looked quickly to his left to see if his outburst had woken the detective. It hadn't.

"Calm down," Shawn told himself, as he rubbed his sore foot.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nearly 9:30 pm. He figured he'd give Lassiter a bit longer, which would hopefully give him enough time to get a grip on things.

Shawn wearily rubbed his hands over his face as he thought back over the last two days. Nothing had gone as planned. He knew that he was partly responsible for this fiasco. He had been incredibly bored and looking for some adventure. Gus was out of town at some conference in Seattle, his father was away fishing, and Jules was home sick with the flu. Their P.I. business had no open cases; the SBPD hadn't called.

He had been left alone. _Bored and alone_, he thought dejectedly. Shawn was not one to sit around idle for long. It took a little deception and subtle questioning, but he was able to weasel the information that he wanted out of McNabb.

Shawn learned that Lassiter had been assigned to investigate a robbery involving stolen arms and ammunitions. And he wanted in. It took only a handful of "visions" for him to persuade the Chief to allow him to tag along while Jules was out. The case wasn't all that complicated and he had good reason to believe that he'd be able to one-up Lassiter and solve it with ease. They had probable suspects, an undercover officer in place and likely associations. It was just a matter of catching everyone in the act. They needed to identify where the seller and black market buyer were going to meet. Shawn had done some legwork and narrowed down the locations. After that, it was just a matter of going through the motions: the set-up, the "vision," and the reveal. His plan was perfect.

_Not perfect_, he thought as he glanced at the figure on the floor.

Shawn could feel his stomach churn sharply with the familiar pangs of guilt. He felt a weird sense of responsibility over happened tonight. He should have trusted his instincts. _Who the hell am I kidding? My father was right. Missed the big picture. I was too focused on my plan. Screwed up big time,_ Shawn thought with a sad shake of his head. With all of his training, he wasn't able to spot the deception.

**OoOoOoO  
**

_**5 Days Earlier  
**_

"Chief, are kidding me?" Lassiter shouted at the woman seated across from him.

Shawn covered a smirk, watching the scene unfold with unbridled glee.

Karen Vick, Chief of the Santa Barbara Police Department, scowled deeply. "Detective Lassiter, I'm not asking you, I'm telling you," she said with a cold, hard tone.

"But --" Lassiter tried to interrupt, but whatever argument he wanted to offer was squelched by a sharp look from the SBPD's Chief.

_This wasn't going to be a win for Lassiter,_ Shawn thought. Even as a bystander in the conversation, Shawn could clearly see that Chief Vick had made up her mind. And much to his relief, the Head Detective wasn't going to dissuade her from her decision.

"No, buts, Carlton," she said as she stared intently. Shawn could tell that her tolerance for both of the men seated within her office was spent. "End of discussion. Mr. Spencer will be assisting in this case. He has provided valuable information thus far and I feel that he might offer up a different perspective that might help locate these stolen arms."

Shawn watched as Lassiter's head darted back and forth from the Chief to him, back to the Chief.

_Not what you had in mind, eh, Lassie?_ He smiled brightly at the other man's obvious confusion and agitation.

Still looking at Lassiter, she continued, "Update Mr. Spencer and keep me appraised of the situation. That understood?"

Lassiter frowned deeply, but nodded. In one fluid motion, he stood and exited the Chief's office.

Shawn smiled and winked to the Chief as he moved to follow the other man out of the room.

"Oh, and Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick called out, stopping him in his tracks. "Don't do anything that will make me regret my decision."

"No worries, Chief. I will be on my best behavior. Scout's honor," Shawn said, as he gave her a small salute.

Once excused from the Chief's office, Shawn made his way over to Lassiter's office. The detective was seated, and already on the phone. Shawn slowly walked over, eager to eavesdrop on the detective's conversation. Unfortunately for him, Lassiter hung up before he could hear anything worthwhile.

"So, partner. What's next?" Shawn asked cheerfully as he perched himself on the edge of Lassiter's desk.

Lassiter scowled. "First, we are not partners. Second, I don't have time to deal with your nonsense. So, if you want to play detective-- fine, but stay out of my way."

Shawn's eyebrows rose. "Oh, don't be that way, Lassie. You're just jealous because I've been able to do more for this case in the last 24 hours than you've been able to accomplish in the last two weeks."

He knew that he was dancing very close to the edge. And without Gus and Jules around to rein him in, he felt free to dance as close to that "edge" as he could. Antagonizing Lassiter might be fun, but only to a point. If he wasn't careful, he might blow his chances at getting to work this case. He briefly wondered if there could be cosmic backlash for his taunting. Shawn knew from experience that you couldn't poke at a snake without it eventually striking back. He was well acquainted with that particular lesson after his short-lived stint with _Dave's Exotic Pet Emporium_ back in '99. Given plenty of time and opportunity, he knew that Lassiter would strike back.

Before either man could make a move, they were interrupted by the arrival of a younger detective. Shawn grinned, instantly recognizing the other man.

"Spencer? Shawn Spencer? That you?" the younger detective asked with a matching grin.

"Dude! Frank? Frankenstein! My long lost, evil twin brother," Shawn answered back with a melodramatic flare. "Oh wait, I can't remember, who was the evil twin? Never mind. How the hell are ya?"

Both men laughed as they shook hands in greeting. Clearly displeased with the antics (especially Shawn's), Lassiter interrupted the two with a loud "ahem."

The young detective standing before them was none other than Frank Lewis Jr., son of Santa Barbara's finest and former officer Frank Lewis Sr.

Lewis gave a small embarrassed grin as he greeted Lassiter. "Oh. Hi, Sir, Chief Vick said that I should meet up with you here."

Lassiter nodded. "I take it you two know each other?"

"Yeah, our fathers worked patrol together. I haven't seen this guy since... um… Since, we were 13?"

Shawn nodded in agreement. "Sounds about right."

Lassiter gave a quick look between the two men. "Okay. Getting back to things at hand, I wanted to review the final preparations with you before your meeting with Brackett and his people."

"So," Shawn interrupted, earning a dark glare from Lassiter, "what are you doing back here in Santa Barbara?"

"I'm out on loan from the SFPD," Lewis offered back with some hesitation as he noticed the other detective's scowl. "What I want to know is why are you here? You a cop, now? I thought Shawn Spencer would sooner become a priest than become a cop."

"Do you seriously have to do this now?" Lassiter grumbled, obviously irritated with his loss of control over the conversation.

Shawn laughed as he shook his head. "Not a cop, I'm head psychic and Lassiter's partner."

Lassiter allowed a grimace to slip at the mention of partnering, though he masked it faster than Shawn had thought was possible. "Detective Frank Lewis, Spencer will be observing and helping out with the case. And he is, most certainly, not my partner."

He made a small gesture to the younger detective, as he said "Lewis, here, is out on loan to us from SFPD. He will be our inside man and will establish contact once the meeting points are identified. Everyone up to date? Ready to return to the business at hand?"

"Psychic?" Lewis's eyes went wide as he inquired with a grin.

"Yep, psychic detective," Shawn answered.

"How very handy. Any thought on who will win tonight's game at Anaheim?"

Shawn furrowed his brow and placed his right hand near his temple, using his patented "in deep thought" pose.

"Hmm… I see shooting stars? No wait, not shooting; more like falling. Definitely falling. And they aren't stars, they're rays. Hmm…" Shawn flapped his arms frantically and said, "I see not one angel, but group of them. The spirits say the Angels are going to win. I'd put the spread by at least 3."

"Yeah. Considering that it's Tampa Bay that was probably far too easy of a question." Lewis smiled, amused. Though, as Shawn expected, Lassiter was not pleased. _Not pleased at all._

The head detective rose from his seat and grumbled, "Stop encouraging him, Lewis. I need to grab some files. Let's meet back here in one hour." Not waiting for an answer, he moved up out of his desk chair, giving Shawn a quick push that easily removed him from his perch. "And you," he snapped, "Please don't be here when I get back."

"Aw, Lassie. You wound me."

"Shut up, Spencer," Lassiter warned as he walked away.

Once Lassiter was out of earshot, the two younger men started to laugh.

"Wow. Same old Shawn," Lewis said.

Shawn shrugged. "Yes, well, at times, I even amaze myself."

"Hey. Some of the guys and I are going to the watch the game at Monroe's tonight. Care to join us? Catch up on old times? We'll have plenty of food and beer. Besides, I'm curious to see if your predictions are right."

"Sure, and prepare to be astonished. My psychic skills are never wrong."

**OoOoOoO**

_**Present  
**_

And they weren't, at least about the baseball game. Shawn had been right; Anaheim beat Tampa Bay 6 to 2. _Good guess. Lucky guess_, he corrected. He had a good time, and managed to keep himself out of trouble the entire night. Lewis had always been a "substitute Gus", even when they were children. Not quite a replacement, more like a stand-in whenever Gus was away. The man had a wicked sense of humor and they seemed to still have quite a few things in common beyond their shared history.

Shawn sighed as he rubbed his head in frustration. He needed to focus; hindsight wasn't helping their situation.

Taking a quick look at his watch, he saw that it was nearly 10:00. It was time to wake Lassiter. He hoped that he hadn't made a mistake allowing the other man to sleep. Not that he could have really stopped the man, the body could only tolerate so much.

He crossed the small room, squatting in front of the detective. From Shawn's perspective, nothing had changed. Lassiter was still very pale and very unconscious.

"Time's up, Lassie. Rise and shine." Shawn said.

If Shawn had been expecting a reaction, he would have been disappointed, but he hadn't.

Undeterred: "Come on dude, time to wake up" Shawn said, as he none-too-gently shoved Lassiter's shoulder a couple of times. Still nothing. He was beginning to worry.

Taking bolder measures, Shawn firmly pinched the skin between the detective's thumb and index finger. This time he was rewarded with a response. Lassiter jerked his hand away and mumbled something.

"No napping!" he shouted, tapping the detective's face.

"Spencer?" came a weak, slurred response.

"Yep, got it in one. Time to open your eyes, Sunshine." Shawn waited patiently, as the recumbent detective slowly blinked his eyes open.

He was uneasy with the other man's sluggish reactions. _He's tired and wounded_. _What are you expecting?_ Lassiter might be uptight, "by the book," pain in the ass, but seeing him this weak was something new for Shawn. It was something that disturbed him deeply.

"Spencer?"

"Yeah. Still here." Shawn sat quietly, watching Lassiter's bleary eyes try to focus.

"What happened?" Lassiter winced, as he automatically moved a hand towards his head.

Shawn reached out and grabbed the hand, "Stop that. What do you remember?"

He watched as the head detective's gaze wandered from one spot to another. He saw him close his eyes and slowly shake his head, as if he were trying to wake from a dream.

He tapped Lassiter on the shoulder after a couple minutes passed with no answer. "Um, you with me still?"

Lassiter sighed deeply, "Yeah. My head hurts. Everything's all blurred."

"Yeah." _Damn it! _Shawn cursed to himself. "You were shot. A bullet grazed your head."

The other man nodded slightly at the news and asked, "Where are we?"

Shawn sighed and sat down on the floor. "We've had this conversation before."

"We have?"

"Yeah. An hour ago."

Lassiter scowled at him, grabbing Shawn's arm. "I CAN'T remember, Spencer. WHERE ARE WE?"

_Ok. Strike that. Not weak_, Shawn thought. It took three tries for Shawn to extract his arm from the other man's grip. "Geesh, all right. You want to know where we are. We're locked in a room in some storage facility east of the city."

Lassiter looked around, as if he had misplaced something important. "Where's O'Hara?"

"Home sick."

"Guster?"

"Abandoned me for a convention in Seattle. The nerve of some people, going out of town for work and not telling their best friend that they've left until they are at the airport," Shawn ranted.

"Ah. So, it's just you and I?" Lassiter inquired, skeptically.

"Yep"

"That just doesn't make sense."

Shawn grinned at the last comment. "Yeah. I agree. Doesn't make sense, but here we are."

Lassiter merely nodded again. Shawn had to give the detective a lot of credit. Twice, he awoken to the same confusion, and twice he reacted in a very calm and collected manner. Or at least as calm as Lassiter could be in any situation. Shawn wasn't sure if he would have reacted similarly if their positions were reversed.

"We're trapped?"

"Door's locked." He jumped up and offered a quick demonstration.

It didn't go unnoticed that Lassiter didn't follow his movements. Shawn gave the door a sharp kick out of frustration, startling them both. His irritation with their situation was becoming unbearable. He took a breath, trying to channel some of his father's advice. _Stay cool, Shawn. Nothing you can't handle._

"We're stuck. Lewis took our phones. Can't call for help. We just need to sit tight and wait for back-up to arrive," he reported.

"Lewis? As in Detective Lewis? What the hell does he have to do with this?" Lassiter shot back.

"A lot." Shawn sighed again, moving over to check on the injured detective. "But first, you're looking a bit rough. You okay?"

Rough was an understatement. Shawn was disturbed to see that how pale the detective had become in just minutes. His face was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and his features were pinched and tense. _Shit. Not good._

"I'm a bit dizzy," Lassiter admitted

"A bit? Would you rather lay down?" He made a grand gesture to the floor. "Unfortunately, our accommodations are a tad lacking. We will have to complain to the management."

"No, I'm okay. How long have we been in here?" Lassiter asked. The man was constantly shifting his body, as Shawn watched him struggle to find a comfortable position.

"In here, as in the storage room? About two hours. In the building, not sure, maybe a little longer? Lost track of time when things got crazy."

Lassiter coughed roughly, before asking, "How do you know back-up is on their way?

Shawn hedged "Called after you were shot."

Not exactly a lie; Lewis had made an anonymous call to the local police reporting suspicious activity at the warehouse. It was the least the man could do. And as it was, Shawn had been forced to beg his former childhood friend for that small act of charity. He grimaced at the memory, and forcibly pushed it from his mind.

He knew that the police would be in no hurry to check out this particular call. Shawn saw firsthand the wildfires that raged in the northeastern parts of the county as he drove his bike here. _Secluded location, limited road access, perfect for a trap_. He knew the roads he traveled were more than likely closed, which would ultimately block any chance of rescue for the short term.

"I think you should start over and explain everything to me from the beginning. And I mean everything that's relevant, Spencer. None of your usual crap," Lassiter said from his position on the floor.

"You sure? Last time you dozed off."

"Yes. Just get on with it."

_**  
To Be Continued**_

**OoOoOoO  
**

Not exactly a cliffhanger, but it will have to do for the moment. Thanks for reading. Comments, critiques and feedback are welcome.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimers et al**-- See Chapter 1

**Spoilers:** very minor references to "Sixty Five Million Years Off"

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the reviews! They are greatly appreciated!! I fear this chapter may drift a tad into OOC-ness territory. Just chalk it up to Lassiter's head injury and not the author's desire for a little more angst.

_Special thanks to my beta for her assistance. Without her, there would just be semicolons and adverbs. Lots and lots of adverbs._

**Trapped, tensions build and tempers flare… Time for Chapter 3**

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**Disoriented **

_by Miss Weather_

**OoOo ****Chapter 3 ****oOoO  
**

_I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind.  
Some come from ahead and some come from behind.  
But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see.  
Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me! -- Dr. Seuss_

* * *

With a couple of well-placed nudges from Spencer, he had managed to stay awake for much of the recap. Silently, he fumed as he listened to how they ended up locked in this damn room. He was disgusted to hear that a fellow detective had set them up. The younger detective appeared to have potential. _Such a waste_. 

By the time Spencer finished the story he was furious. Apparently, he had been not only deceived and assaulted, but one of his officers had been killed tonight.

"Son of a bitch!" he said, smacking a nearby box.

"Calm down," Spencer scolded. "Hitting things isn't going to help."

He agreed with a small nod, wearily rubbing his face. The pounding in his head was persisting without mercy. He could handle being injured, but the loss of several days was starting to take its toll. And to make matters worse, he was stuck here with Spencer. Being forced to rely on the other man to act like a responsible adult did not sit well with Lassiter.

It was obvious that he had made a serious mistake somewhere in the past 72 hours. Even though he couldn't remember, he was positive that he missed some important piece of evidence. He was the head detective for the Santa Barbara Police Department. He had over a decade of service established, training, resources, and deductive skills. He should have been able to easily recognize the trap. _But obviously, I hadn't_

He was responsible for the officers working under him and now one of them was dead. He wasn't going to be able to take much more of this.

From what Shawn said, he was fairly confident that they wouldn't be able to escape their prison without outside help. The metal door was locked from the outside. They had no tools and no supplies. The structure was too solid to forcefully kick or push open.

_Nope, one exit and no way to open it. We're screwed._

"So, you think you can remember all of that for the next 15 minutes or so?" Spencer asked, obviously trying to lighten the mood in the room.

"Funny," he said, without the usual malice.

Another heavy silence fell over the room, as he considered one thing that bothered him about Spencer's rendition of this evening's events.

He turned to watch Spencer idly thumb through one of the boxes. He wasn't surprised to find that the boxes contained nothing useful. _Papers and old invoices. Nothing but junk_.

Scrutinizing the younger man, he asked, "Why are you here?"

Spencer's head popped up, clearly confused. "Um, I just told you, Lewis locked us in here."

"No." He shook his head as he pushed himself upright. "Why are you here, as in the warehouse? I can't imagine that I'd permit you to ride along on a case like this. So I'll ask again, why'd you come here?"

"No, you're right. You told me to go home," Spencer said mildly, dropping his gaze to continue his pointless search through the box.

_That stupid, foolish, ass. _"Spencer! Look at me," Lassiter barked, headache be damned. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Spencer jerked his head up from the piles of paper to stare back at him, the younger man's expression quickly shifting from disbelief to irritation. He'd seen that expression before, but it was usually reserved for the man's father. _He's annoyed? Annoyed with me?! _

"I had every intention of taking your advice and going to visit Jules, but, you see, I had this vision. It's not like I can control these things," Spencer responded with a shrug.

"Cut the crap," Lassiter interrupted. "You're not a psychic."

Spencer answered defiantly, ignoring his comments. "You said that you needed to chat with Lewis tonight, but neglected to say where. My vision provided the where, as well as the nasty 'trap' part. So, I rushed over here."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. The fury that he had felt moments ago had returned. "You irresponsible idiot! What gives you the right to decide to do whatever the hell you please?!"

Not disturbed in the least by Spencer's shocked expression, he continued. "I was completely right about you. You are a self-centered, egotistical, immature pain in the ass. Do you ever think before you act?"

Had he been in the right frame of mine, he probably would have stopped there, but he wasn't. And he definitely wasn't in the mood to censor himself. His anger needed an outlet.

"So what was your big plan, Spencer? Swoop in and save the day? Are you trying to get yourself killed?! You're not a cop. Stop pretending to be one!" he shouted, feeling himself shake.

If he thought that the younger man would accept the verbal reprimand without comment, he was very wrong. Even in the poorly lit room, he saw the man's eyes darken. He briefly considered that he had never seen Spencer this upset before. _Peeved, mildly annoyed, exasperated, but never truly angry._

Enraged, Spencer jumped to his feet, "Irresponsible? Idiot? I came here to warn you!"

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lassiter's anger grew. "And you couldn't have called? This isn't a game."

"You don't think I realize that?" he spat back.

"You should have just stayed home. Kept away like I had told you to. I don't need your help."

Spencer shook his head. "I think that bullet knocked something loose. Don't need my help? What are you talking about?"

"Don't you get it Spencer? I don't need you help. I didn't need it during the Franzen and Deacon Murder cases and certainly not now!"

"Is that was this is about? You're jealous?"

"Jealous?" Lassiter repeated, amazed at the man's audacity.

"Yes, jealous of me and my abilities. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I solved all of those cases. And for the last week, you've been running around like chickens with your heads cut off and if it weren't for me, you'd be nowhere."

"No one's jealous, you egomaniac! And I hate to break it to you, but we are nowhere, Spencer. No stolen guns, no arrests. Fat lot of good that fake psychic crap did us. DeSantos is still dead. Brackett and Lewis are gone, presumably with the money and goods."

"I can't believe you're blaming me for this! This isn't my fault. You walked into the trap, not me."

"You have no business being here. I've said it before and I'll say it again, you are a waste of space."

"Yeah, well, I don't like you either!"

Lassiter sighed, as their argument ended abruptly. There wasn't anything more to add after that weak retort. Tensions were high and too much had been said out of agitation. _Damn it! _Lassiter cursed to himself._ This was neither the time nor place for this_. He felt completely out of sorts.

He turned to see that the younger man had moved to the other side of the room to rifle through more boxes. Spencer had created as much distance away from Lassiter as he could. _Just great_, he thought sullenly. Not that he could blame him; he would have moved if he could, too.

He knew that he shouldn't have yelled at Spencer. _At least, not here, not now._ Yelling recriminations wasn't going to fix things. DeSantos was still dead, he was still injured, and they were still trapped. It hadn't helped their situation and in fact, made things worse. _Way to make a mess of things, Carlton, _he thought miserably._ Bridges were burnt to a crisp for sure._

Now, a heavy silence had filled the room. One filled with mistrust, resentment and anger. Ordinarily, silence would have been a welcome relief, but not now. Still, if Spencer felt fit to ignore him for the time being, then he could do the same.

Lassiter stifled a groan as he tried to shift his position. Not only did his tirade serve to alienate the other man, it also left him drained and in more pain. He felt awful. The ever-present headache had strengthened with all of the shouting. Pressure had built up behind his eyes and was boring into his skull, giving his head the sensation of being squeezed in a vise. He felt his heart race, as he tried to focus on breathing. It was an unsettling feeling._ Breathe_, he reminded himself.

_Breathe slowly. In and out. It'll subside_.

He forced himself to lie back (as much as the boxes would allow) and try to relax. He had hoped that a little rest might restore his energy. Moreover, he figured that it might give him a little time to think about how he could mend things with Spencer. Unable to find a more comfortable position for his body, he shifted to stretch his limbs. As he slowly moved his head away from the boxes, he realized that he made another colossal mistake.

Without warning, the room spun sharply. He flung his hands out to grab onto whatever stable objects he could find. Gasping, he felt a wave of nausea crash into him. He tried his mantra again, but it was no use. His stomach rebelled and he retched violently, emptying its contents onto the concrete floor.

Lassiter was in agony. His world tunneled and for a few moments, he wished for death. The pressure in his head increased exponentially as he coughed and gagged. And as the last meager remnants of his dinner were expelled, he felt an overwhelming sense of weakness. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to collapse to the floor.

In the darkness, he heard frantic footsteps as the other man raced over. He could hear Spencer's shout, panicked and afraid. Shivering as pain continued to wrack his body, he felt hands supporting head.

He listened to Spencer's uncharacteristically soft voice. "Easy, man. It's okay. Just be still. It'll be over soon." The younger man swore, as Lassiter coughed roughly.

It took what felt like an entirety for the nausea to abate. The steady throb in his head pulsed, as he tried to get control of his body. Spencer continued his steady stream of softly spoken words as he lifted and propped Lassiter's head onto something softer.

Lassiter groaned loudly, shifting his legs as he felt them grow stiff in their current position.

"You with me?" Spencer asked tentatively, squeezing his arm.

He had no desire to acknowledge the younger man. As the fog in his brain started to lift, he could feel the all-too-familiar stirrings of embarrassment settle into his weary body. He was disgusted with himself for losing his temper with Spencer, and now he had lost control over his stomach. He was too embarrassed to speak.

"I know you're awake. Just open your eyes for a minute. Please?"

Hearing the concern in the other man's tone, Lassiter changed his mind and decided to open his eyes, tentatively, hoping to avoid any repeat performances. It took a while for things to come into focus for him, but once settled, he found himself staring at a worried Spencer once again. There was something in the other man's expression that he recognized with a flash of irritation. _Pity. _Lassiter didn't want Spencer's pity. He tried to turn his body away, but the pain effectively trapped him.

Hissing, he clenched his eyes shut, hoping to shut everything out.

"I know it hurts, but I need you to open your eyes again." Spencer sounded very young and very tired.

Taking Spencer's advice, he slowly reopened his eyes and looked at the man hunched in front of him. _He looks scared_. It was a weird look for the normally egotistical man. Lassiter wanted to say something reassuring to the younger man, but he couldn't find the words.

"Spencer," he rasped.

"Hey," Spencer interrupted quickly. He grinned slightly and said, "Take it slow. You doing okay? Sorry. Of course you're not."

He struggled to reply, unable to generate enough moisture to rid his mouth of the foul taste. "Thirsty."

"Huh? Oh, you're thirsty." Spencer sighed, shaking his head in frustration. "We don't have anything to drink. Remember?"

Lassiter nodded.

"Oh good." Spencer looked extremely relieved. "I thought for a moment.--well, never mind that. Dare I ask? Do you feel as crappy as you look?"

"That bad?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Not going to win any beauty pageants tonight."

Lassiter groaned at the obvious joke and slowly rolled onto his back.

"You okay? Gonna puke again?" Spencer asked, concerned.

He whispered a "no," before allowing his eyes to drift around the room. He quickly spotted the mess on the floor near his legs. He grimaced sharply at the sight.

Spencer followed his gaze and asked, "Think you're up for a little change in scenery?

"Huh?" Lassiter blinked wearily.

"How about we move over there," Spencer said, pointing a hand towards the opposite wall.

Lassiter nodded. He wanted to move, struggled to push himself off the ground, but found that his limbs wouldn't cooperate.

"Easy!" Spencer said as he wrapped his arms around Lassiter's torso. "Let me help you."

Much to Lassiter's growing embarrassment, he couldn't stand, and certainly wasn't going to be able to walk. Spencer had to practically drag him to the wall, as he lay helpless. Even with all of the pain and weakness, he felt a deep sense of humiliation. _Pathetic! _He cursed himself.

"You good?" Spencer asked as he helped Lassiter settle into a more comfortable position.

"Yeah," he answered, quietly. _Not good, but tolerable_. He was stretched out on his left side with his back to the wall. And with Spencer's sweatshirt underneath his head, he felt somewhat better.

Once Spencer was satisfied that Lassiter would be fine for the next couple of minutes, he stood. "Hmm. I'll just pile the boxes over that. Should help with the smell a bit," he said as he gestured a hand at the puddle.

Lassiter winced at the reminder and turned his head away from the younger man.

"Did I ever tell you the story of when Gus and I went to Cabo San Lucas for Spring Break?" Not waiting for an answering, Spencer continued. "We had been having a good time, hanging out at some bar with some fine-looking college co-eds. We were following the 'Spring Break' code and ordered only tequila and beer. And no joke, within an hour we were puking our guts out." He laughed at the memory, shifting some of the boxes around to cover the mess.

Spencer went on. "Gus swears that the beer was tainted. Who knows, but we were forced to stay in the motel for the rest of the weekend, praying to the porcelain god and all. Anyways, it was a mess; nothing like this."

Lassiter understood the not-so-subtle moral of the story and appreciated the other man's efforts.

"Hey, Lassie, next time if you feel like you're gonna puke, try to use this," Spencer said, placing an empty crate in front of Lassiter.

"No," he said with a small shake of his head. He wasn't going to allow himself to get sick again. _Nope, not going to humiliate myself further_.

"What?" Spencer asked perplexed.

"Won't need it," Lassiter said softly.

"Fine. Whatever. Suit yourself. I'll leave it nearby, just in case." Spencer sighed heavily, as he sat down next to Lassiter's head. "So, now what?"

_Good question,_ he thought. _Now what, indeed_.

Much to Lassiter's annoyance, they had no other recourse, but to wait for help to arrive. The thought made him cringe. Trying to push aside his doubts and fears, he closed his eyes to rest.

"Hey, Lassie, you going to sleep already?" Spencer asked, sharply poking Lassiter's back.

"Resting my eyes," he mumbled. He felt unnaturally fatigued. The pervasive weakness and headache made him feel thick and slow.

He heard the other man mutter something in response, but the words were distorted by a rustling noise. Curious, he slowly pried his eyes open. His viewpoint was limited and his fuzzy eyes couldn't locate the source of the sound.

"What's that noise?" he asked, assuming that Spencer was the cause.

"Oh. Just passing the time," Spencer said, reaching over to show the recumbent man a small paper airplane.

Spencer smiled, as he launched the plane across the room. "Gus and I spent hours making these things as kids. We'd have Air Shows and competitions. Challenge each other to see whose plane could go the furthest, do the most loops. Things like that."

The man sighed and continued with his narrative. "Sadly, I would've been the undefeated champion, if my dad hadn't put a stop to our last match. We borrowed the paper from his desk without his permission."

Lassiter watched as the second paper plane sailed effortlessly across the room, landing somewhere behind a stack of boxes.

"As I'm sure you can guess, Dad was furious," Spencer told him. "I guess we had used some tax forms for our fleet. It wasn't our fault, but he didn't see it that way."

Lassiter pressed a hand against his chest, as he half-listened to Spencer grumble. An intense feeling of cold had taken root in his chest. It was a sharp, biting cold that quickly spread from his chest into his arms and legs.

Spencer asked sharply, "What's wrong?"

"I feel odd," Lassiter mumbled, slipping off into the darkness.

**

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**To be continued!**

**Thanks for reading! Feedback, comments and critiques are welcome! **

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	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimers et al**-- See Chapter 1.

**A/N:** My deepest and sincere apologies for my delay with this chapter. Between work and buying a home, things have been rather chaotic. Little did I know that buying a home would eat up so much of my free time. It's definitely an exciting, yet terrifying experience. I've digressed long enough. Thank you so much for the reviews and comments. My apologies if I haven't responded back to all of the notes. I've been a bit waylaid at the moment, but let me reassure you that they were read and deeply appreciated.

**Story Notes:** I've taken some liberties with respect to the characters' backgrounds. With time, it will likely prove to be non-canon, but such is the way of fanfic. Special thanks to my beta, k. This was a rather troublesome chapter that still seems to suffer from flashback syndrome. I've decided to simply embrace my new found love for flashbacks and hope that it doesn't prove terminal for the story. And by now, I'm sure you are pleading for less medical puns… (sorry! )

**Summary:**** The set-up. The betrayal. And male bonding? On to Chapter 4!**

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**Title: Disoriented by- Miss Weather**

**OoOo ****Chapter 4 ****oOoO**

"_It's always darkest, before it's totally black." Chairman Mao._

* * *

He watched in horror as the detective's features went abruptly slack, and Lassiter fell still. _Too still_. Shawn reached over in a panic, his fingers fumbling across Lassiter's neck, searching for his pulse. It took several long seconds, but he was able to feel it beat rapidly underneath his fingertips.

_Thank God. _He rubbed his hands over his face. _He's getting worse,_ Shawn realized miserably. And there was not a damn thing he could do about it.

_Damn it!_ He scrubbed the back of his neck as he felt the muscles tighten from stress. He didn't understand why he said half of the things he did on most occasions. Truth be told, he never quite had control over the things he said, never thought first before speaking. He had been caught up in his own lies, fueling Lassiter's outrage.

And now, Lassiter's outburst had left him feeling unbalanced and completely discombobulated. He knew that the detective wasn't a fan, but he hadn't expected such a fervent berating. He should have ignored the Lassiter's comments, should have said nothing. But, he couldn't keep his mouth shut and things were made worse as a result.

He forced himself to be adult enough to push the comments aside for the time being. The situation was unbearable and both men were upset. _And rightfully so_, he relented. _I should be out on a date, enjoying my Friday night and not trapped in this damn room with Lassiter_.

Shawn's thoughts drifted back over the evening's events, as he tossed another paper airplane across the room. As the plane looped then careened into the floor, he considered his actions.

OoOoOoO

_**Early Friday evening**_

"What's a 15 letter word for a whimsical, scatterbrained person?" Shawn asked.

"Shawn Spencer," Lassiter grumbled, clearly annoyed with the constant distractions.

"Ha, ha, but it doesn't fit," Shawn said as he doodled along the margins of Gus's crossword book.

He was bored. _So very bored_. For the better part of an hour, he had been working on a crossword puzzle while Lassiter completed his paperwork. As per his usual, he was creating his own unique words to match the definitions. _Gus hates when I do that,_ he thought wryly.

He needed a diversion from the monotony of sitting and waiting. Ordinarily, he would bait Gus or Jules into providing some distraction or conversation to help pass the time. Sadly, Lassiter refused to offer any sort of entertainment, forcing Shawn to take refuge in a crossword puzzle

"How about this one, 3 down, another name for a bald head?"

"Could you just pretend to be an adult for a little while? If you sit still and be quiet, I'll give you a cookie," Lassiter retorted from his desk chair across from Shawn.

"Fine. Whatever, Lassie. No need to get your panties in a twist."

_Strike one_, he mused. He wasn't going to be able to goad him into an argument this time. The detective had an abundance of paperwork and was determined to complete it before the weekend. Shawn sighed as they were interrupted by Lassiter's phone. He watched the detective unclench his teeth before answering.

They had made a lot of progress on the case, thanks in no small part to Shawn's help. The combination of a little research and a good hunch had paid off. The stolen arms had been relocated to an abandoned factory near the city limits. Shawn identified that Brackett had connections in the garment industry; specifically, at an old machine shop west of the city. Surveillance had been set up and the teams were on stand-by, it was a simple matter of waiting for the "buy" to go down.

Brackett was nothing more than the middle man in this current deal. He had "acquired" the arms and was trying to sell them off. The SBPD task force was hoping to not only identify the buyers, but find out who had supplied Brackett with the stolen arms.

All of this had recently been confirmed by the Department's undercover officer. Lewis had been working undercover as "muscle" for Brackett for several months. However, despite his best efforts, he was considerably low on the "information totem pole" in the little operation. He had not been privy to all information regarding the latest deal, including specific timeline of the deal, or the identities of the sellers. According to the Lewis, Brackett was looking to quickly sell the stolen arms to an unknown buyer and relocate overseas. At this point, this raid was their best opportunity to catch not only Brackett and his associates, but confiscate the stolen arms and ammunition.

Shawn idly leafed through the puzzle book, as he sat with his feet propped on Lassiter's desk. He was extremely pleased with himself at the moment. His visions were perfectly timed, and everything was working out as he had hoped. _Score one for the head psychic_.

Lassiter hung up the phone and exited his office to wave over a pair of uniformed officers. "Ok. That was Detective Lewis. Something's come up. DeSantos, you're with me."

"What's up? Where are we going?" Shawn asked, tossing his book on the desk.

"We?" Lassiter grimaced, jabbing a finger at the other man. "We aren't going anywhere. I'm going to meet up with Lewis and you're going home."

"No way! The Chief said I could help."

"And you did. Now go home, Spencer," Lassiter ordered.

"Why can't I come?" Shawn asked, not caring how petulant he sounded.

Lassiter glared. "Because. Oh, let me think on this for a second. Could it be because I haven't taken complete leave of my senses?"

"I can help!" Shawn replied, sullen.

"Let me break it down for you, Spencer. NO!" Lassiter shouted. "Now, go home!"

He adopted his best bright, fake smile as he raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay, you win, Lassie. I'm out of here. Besides, I'm sure Jules could use a little cheering up. Bonus! I get to tell her all how SBPD's head psychic, moi, solved the case."

Not paying any mind to the fake psychic, Lassiter simply rolled his eyes and walked away. Shawn wasn't surprised by Lassiter's attitude. The detective had been unusually tense. Beyond the usual "stick up the ass" tense that he had come to know as Lassiter's typical disposition. It was clear that the long days were wearing everyone down. Everyone that is, except for Shawn. He felt energized, as clues lead them to what he hoped was a quick resolution. He just had to be patient. They had the where; they just had to wait for the buyers to arrive into town.

Shawn walked out of the station to his motorcycle, his suspicious mind in full gear. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he was bothered by this late night phone call and meeting. Lewis had been passing information along to Lassiter through the usual means (phone, messages, etc). This had been the first request for an unscheduled face-to-face meeting. And it had him puzzled. He couldn't figure out why the younger man would need to speak with the head detective in person.

Several oddities had popped up over the course of the investigation. Finding the factory had been surprisingly easy. Shawn couldn't figure out why they would have selected such an obvious location within city limits. Plus, a couple of finer details with the undercover detective and friend troubled him. Lewis had been clueless with so many details, but was able to confirm the location of the arms far too quickly. Shawn had been willing to give his friend the benefit of the doubt over the course of the week. But now, the little things gnawed at him.

Shawn wasn't willing to idly sit by after he had invested both time and energy into this investigation. There were too many small questions that he wanted answers to. With his mind set, he climbed onto his motorcycle and headed after Lassiter's sedan.

With some rather creative shortcuts (two parking lots, an empty lot, and the sidewalk), he was able to catch up to the detective's car as they got onto the highway. He was forced to push his misgivings to the side, as he directed his full attention to the road to maintain a safe distance from Lassiter. Summer wildfires continued to rage along the northern parts of the county, making his trek all the more risky. He hummed "Danger Zone" to himself as dense clouds of smoke hugged the land, obstructing his visibility and that of those vehicles around him.

Lassiter's sedan had pulled off the road, forcing Shawn to take some evasive maneuvers and hide his bike behind a hedgerow. They had arrived at a non-descript, private storage warehouse with a long driveway. Surrounded by a lingering haze, it appeared to be sole structure for miles on this particular stretch of road._ Eerily isolated._

Shawn watched from behind the bushes as Lassiter exited the car and walked to the building's entrance while Officer DeSantos checked the perimeter. Unable to see anything from his current vantage point, Shawn snuck around the backside of the building to find another door.

_Perfect_, he thought, spotting that the rear door was ajar. He cautiously entered the building, careful to keep himself concealed behind some nearby crates. From the interior, someone was housing numerous wooden crates and boxes that were stacked vertically about eight feet high along the walls of the building. There were narrow halls that led into what Shawn assumed were the smaller separated storage spaces. The building's acoustics were surprisingly good and Shawn was able to eavesdrop on the detectives' conversation from a reasonably safe distance.

"You haven't answered my question yet. Why did you insist that I come here?" Lassiter barked, clearly very annoyed with the younger detective.

"Hang on, Sir. The documents that I mentioned are right over here. I just have to find where I stuck them," Lewis replied. Shawn noticed instantly that his tone of voice seemed wrong. It was frantic and nervous, but there was something oddly contrived to it. His stomach churned as he remembered when he last heard Lewis use that tone.

He heard Lassiter state, "Get a grip, Lewis. No need to panic, just find the documents."

Shawn snuck around the crates, hoping to be able to catch a glimpse of the action. From his new location, he saw Lewis haphazardly toss papers around as he dug through a large cardboard box. Lassiter stood off to the side, looking forever perturbed with the world. _His typical stance_, Shawn thought wryly. Lewis was sweating, clenching and unclenching his fists. _Something's wrong._

Before Shawn could figure out the man's odd behavior, the sound of gunfire erupted outside of the building. _Gunfire? _Shawn froze, watching the other men reflexively draw their weapons. Lassiter quickly moved to the door and signaled Lewis to follow.

"Don't move," Lewis ordered, turning his gun on the head detective.

Shocked, Lassiter jerked to a stop. "What?" he asked as he turned to face the younger detective.

"Don't move! I mean it!" Shawn heard Lewis yell and he watched the man steadily point his gun at Lassiter. "Drop your gun."

"What the hell is going on, Lewis?"

"Just do it."

_Shit. Don't just stand here, _Shawn admonished himself_, Do something. _His heart raced, as he tried to get a grip on the situation. _Damn it! _He needed something to turn the tables; he needed a plan, a distraction. Without thinking, he pushed on one of the stacks, causing several boxes to unbalance and topple to the floor. The loud crash echoed in the warehouse.

As Shawn moved away from the fallen boxes, he saw that his distraction had worked. In that short time, he could see that Lassiter managed to gain the upper hand over the younger detective. Lassiter stood over a prone Lewis with his gun aimed at the other man. However, his expression morphed from anger to pure surprise when he spotted Shawn.

Lassiter glared at him. "Spencer? What the hell are you doing here?!"

"Um. Helping you out?" Shawn called out hesitantly, as he walked towards the men.

Lassiter scowled, returning his gaze to the other detective. "Spencer, grab his gun. And Lewis, you are under arrest."

Before Lassiter could finish his sentence, another round of shots rang out. Unlike the first time, the shot were coming from within the warehouse. Shawn instantly reacted, ducking and covering his head.

With a shove, Lassiter maneuvered Shawn out of the direct line of fire.

Shawn crouched low to the floor as he tried to get his bearings on the situation. He glanced to the side, quickly noting that Lewis had escaped while Lassiter had moved him out of harm's way. The tall crates had provided some cover from the barrage of shots that had been sent in their direction. Keeping his back flush against the crates, he watched Lassiter return fire.

"Spencer!" the detective shouted. "Call for help."

Shawn nodded, retrieving his phone from his pocket. However, it quickly fumbled out his hand, as a shot struck the crate next to him, coming dangerously close to his shoulder. Shawn swore as he watched the battery half of the phone break off and slid under neighboring crates. _Damn piece of crap._

"Um. Can I use your phone?" he shouted to Lassiter above the gunfire.

He couldn't tell if the other man had really heard him or not. It was obvious that the other man was focused on more pressing matters. From the look on the detective's face as he checked his weapon, this firefight was going to be very short. Shawn had become rather proficient in reading Lassiter's facial expressions over the past couple of years. This particular scowl meant low ammo, which didn't bode well for their situation.

There was a sudden lag in the shooting. _Probably reloading_, Shawn thought bleakly_. _Lassiter had been conservative with his shots, only taking one or two when he could. Given the sporadic gunfire, it appeared that only one of them was shooting. _Why?_ Nothing about this situation made sense to Shawn. Lassiter and DeSantos had been set up by Lewis and, likely, Brackett. The initial shots came from another gunman (or gunmen), but there was no way to know for certain who was shooting at them now.

Shawn crouched again as couple of bullets ricocheted off the crates near his head, sending shrapnel flying. He quickly turned his head to see if he could get Lassiter's attention and borrow his phone.

What he saw was Lassiter's body sprawled on the floor, rivulets of blood cascading down the man's head and face. He cursed; absolutely convinced that Lassiter was dead.

However, Shawn wasn't given long to think, as another close call galvanized him into action. He stepped over Lassiter's body and grabbed the detective's fallen weapon.

A soft groan from the prone man stopped Shawn in his tracks. He glanced down to see the steady rise and fall of Lassiter's chest. _Wounded, not dead. __Good. Think, Shawn, think!_

He could feel himself panic. _J__ust need a plan. Lay low and get Lassiter help. _

His relief was short-lived, as he heard the sound of a gun cocking from close range.

"Drop the gun, Shawn."

"Frank, what the hell?" Shawn asked, turning to look at the gunman standing behind him.

"Do it!" Lewis shouted, pointing his weapon at Shawn's chest.

Pausing briefly, Shawn did as he asked and tossed the gun off to the side.

"He dead?" Lewis tipped his head in the direction of Lassiter's body.

"Not yet," he answered, trying his best to not sound scared shitless.

"Listen, we go way back. I don't want to kill you, Shawn. So, here's your choice."

Shawn snorted. "Choice? Doesn't seem like you gave DeSantos and Lassiter a choice."

"That wasn't me. That was Brackett," Lewis snarled. "Shut up and listen! Do you want to end up like them? Continue to be a prick and I'll shoot you myself."

"So where's the boss now?" Shawn asked.

"He took off. Lassiter winged him."

"Then why not let us go?"

Lewis shook his head. "I have a lot riding on this. I can't leave you out here to interfere."

"So, what then?"

"So, you cooperate and go into that storage room. I just need to buy us time to leave town. Or, I can just shoot you. Your choice."

Shawn wasted time pretending to deliberate on Lewis's options, while he carefully considered his own. Much to his disgust, there was only one viable option that he could see that wouldn't get him killed.

He studied the man before him, and wondered how he could have so completely misjudged his former friend. With a little self-hatred, Shawn realized that his own eagerness to solve this case led them here. He frowned as he considered how disappointed his father was going to be with him.

"Come on. Time's up." Lewis said impatiently, his gun still fixed on Shawn.

"How do I know you won't betray us again?"

"What do your psychic powers tell you?" Lewis sneered.

Shawn sighed. "That I don't have a choice."

"Right. Now, in you go," Lewis said, gesturing with his gun towards an open doorway.

Instead of walking forward, Shawn moved to face the fallen detective. Squatting behind Lassiter, he carefully turned the injured man onto his back.

"What do you think you are doing?" Lewis asked.

"What does it look like?" Shawn spit back. Hooking his arms around the other man's chest, he dragged him over to the door.

"Fine. Suit yourself," Lewis said. Not moving to stop or help Shawn with his task.

Shawn laid Lassiter's body down in the center of the small room. It was maybe ten-by-ten feet, filled with several boxes. One small overhead light. No supplies, no windows, no vents and only one way out.

"Oh, Shawn," Lewis said, drawing the other man from his survey. "I need your cell phones and Lassiter's back-up gun."

Shawn frowned as he moved Lassiter, searching for the man's phone and backup pistol. He paused, phone and gun in his hands. His eyes drifted to the rivulets of bright red blood that streaked down the detective's face. _So much blood._

"Come on!" Lewis shouted with renewed impatience.

Shawn turned to face his former friend and realized that he wasn't the same Frank. The Frank he knew had been replaced by some merciless and cold-hearted bastard. Definitely someone that Shawn wanted nothing to do with.

"I need you to call for help," Shawn said quietly.

"What?"

"You heard me." Shawn sighed as he gestured to the fallen detective. "He needs help and I don't know when or if back-up will arrive."

Lewis laughed. "You're kidding right? Just hand everything over Shawn."

"I get that you don't give a crap about him or any of this, but you owe me." Shawn watched the other man's eyes widen with surprise at the statement.

"I owe you? How so?" Lewis asked.

"Kennedy Park. You were suspected of vandalizing that statue. I covered for you."

"We were eleven! Come on, Shawn. Hand them over."

Shawn ignored him and continued, "And you said that you'd owe me. I'm collecting on that. Please, Frank. Please call for help."

Lewis stared at him for several long minutes, clearly mulling over his request. Shawn held himself completely still, afraid that the man might reject his request altogether.

"Okay. For old times' sake, I guess. Give me the phone and the gun." Lewis kept the gun trained on Shawn, as he held out his empty hand.

Shawn quietly watched the other man make the quick 9-1-1 phone call. It was an anonymous tip about suspicious sounds ("like gunfire or fireworks") and activity at the storage facility. It wasn't exactly what Shawn had hoped for, but at least it was something.

"This wasn't how I planned things, Shawn," Lewis offered as his way of an apology before sliding the metal door closed. A loud "click" echoed throughout the tiny room. Shawn walked over to the door to confirm his suspicions. The door was securely locked.

_Shit_, he thought bleakly as he stared down at the bleeding, unconscious detective. _Damn it!_

OoOoOoO

**Present**

Shawn was startled from his reverie by Lassiter's sudden thrashing movements. The detective had been deathly still only moments before. _This can't be good._ _Nightmare?_ He wondered grimly watching the man's eyelids flutter. _Seizure?_

He heard Lassiter groan, as he tried to hold the man's head still.

"Easy, man. Everything's okay," he spoke softly.

Lassiter gasped, his eyes bolted open. His body jerked forward as his defense mechanisms suddenly kicked in.

"Hey, easy. It's okay. It's just me."

Shawn saw the bewildered expression spread across the man's pale face. _Shock?_ "Spencer?"

"Yep. Still here," Shawn answered, too tired to tease the detective.

Shawn watched Lassiter blink lethargically, unfocused eyes drifting. _Had he been this sluggish before?_ "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Head hurts," Lassiter responded as small shivers racked his frame.

"Yeah." Shawn nodded, not knowing what else to say.

Lassiter winced, bringing his free hand up to his head. "What happened?"

Shawn sighed; his disappointment grew tenfold with that question. "Don't you remember? Dude, we've been over this before, several times in fact."

Lassiter lay on his side, blinking, but did not offer an answer to Shawn's question.

Growing frustrated, he prompted the wounded man. "Bullet grazed your head, trapped in a warehouse. Sound familiar?"

Lassiter grimaced. "Oh." The answer was soft and weak. Shawn felt his stomach drop at the detective's lack of awareness.

Shawn sighed again. "Well, not to worry. It's not a pleasant story. But I think you should stay awake from now on," he said, noticing that Lassiter was starting to doze off.

"Huh?"

"Stay awake," Shawn ordered.

"Hmm," Lassiter muttered, slowly rubbing at the bandages adorning his head. "Tired. Head hurts. What happened? Was there an accident?"

Shawn glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. _Where the hell was their backup? _Knowing their luck, the roads had been closed by the fires. _Not like they needed another thing to worry about_. He just needed to keep Lassiter alert and aware for a bit longer; help would arrive. They just had to wait patiently.

"No, not exactly an accident. More like attempted murder. But that's neither here nor there at the moment," Shawn answered.

He nervously flicked his paper football across the room.

"Oh," Lassiter replied, closing his eyes again.

Shawn nudged Lassiter's shoulder. "Stop that," he said. "You need to stay awake a bit longer. How about a distraction? Hmm. Name that tune? 20 Questions? Or maybe you want to tell me about that woman you went out with?"

Lassiter coughed roughly, his eyes flickering shut. Shawn decided to try another direction.

"Lassie, are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay, Lassie? You've been hit by, you've been struck by a smooth criminal," Shawn sang out, loudly clapping his hands.

Groaning, Lassiter said, "Spencer! Shut up. I don't know how Guster puts up with you. Man must be a saint."

Shawn smiled at Lassiter's tone. _About time his personality returned_. For perhaps the first time, he was actually thrilled to hear an insult from the detective.

"Gus isn't a saint. Trust me. So, are you going to stay awake or will I have to sing another song?"

"I'll try. Can I ask you a question?" Lassiter asked, sounding more alert.

"You just did."

"Spencer." Lassiter warned, sharp hints of irritation tinging his tone.

"Ok, shoot." Shawn grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry, bad choice of words; I mean, ask way."

"Why didn't you become a cop?" the detective asked

"You picked now of all times to want to bond?"

"I'm curious. You have some good deductive skills. Why didn't you follow in your father's footsteps?"

Shawn sighed irritably, sending another paper football flying across the room. _Of all of the questions, he asks that? Why not ask if I'm really a psychic? At least, I know how to answer that one._

"I don't know. For as long as I can remember, he trained me to be a cop," Shawn answered, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to block out the memories.

He took a deep breath before he continued, "Every waking moment, there was training. My father was obsessed with the idea of his only son going off to the academy, graduating, and becoming a detective. The idea of me becoming a cop became more important to him than anything that I wanted. So, as long as it was important to him, I didn't want to have anything to do with it. Or you know something like that."

Lassiter nodded. "Both of you are too stubborn. Your father's a good man, a good cop."

Shawn laughed. "I think your brain has been rattled around too much today. My father's a control freak."

"True, but you're lucky to have him."

"Lucky? You've met the man. Some luck," he grumbled.

"Yes, lucky. My family wasn't what you'd call close. My father wasn't around much and my mother wasn't all that hands on. But she did the best she could with all 5 of us." Shawn heard a note of resignation in the other man's voice.

_Okay. Time for a new topic_, he thought. Shawn wasn't comfortable with the direction that the conversation was heading in. _Too personal. Too serious_._ Too much of an Oprah moment_. There were topics better left untouched.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "How about you? What made you decide to become a cop? Family tradition? Long line of Lassies that have served and protected?"

"No. My father was an insurance salesman."

"Then why?"

"Don't know, just something that I had always wanted to do, ever since I was a child."

Shawn sighed, at a rare loss for words. He never considered himself lucky to have Henry Spencer as his father, not that he had really considered it much. He tried to imagine a young Lassiter, but couldn't get past the stern, rigid man. He wondered how much of Lassiter's childhood had influenced the man's temperament and lack of humor.

"Why are we still here?" Lassiter asked, pulling Shawn away from his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Back-up's coming right? Or was I dreaming that?"

"No, no. They're on their way."

"Good," Lassiter mumbled softly. "Not feeling well."

Surprised by the admission, Shawn turned his body to get a better view of the detective.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you going to be sick again?"

"Don't know. My head hurts more," Lassiter gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

Shawn scrutinized the detective, noticing the fine tremors that had racked the man's frame had increased. His face was now a chalky white and beads of sweat mixed with the patches of dried blood.

"You might be going into shock. Let me prop up you legs," Shawn said, maneuvering Lassiter's head onto the makeshift sweatshirt pillow.

He stood to retrieve a small box for Lassiter's legs. Before he was able to move two feet, the sounds of retching filled the room again. Shawn quickly spun around to grab anything he could find to contain the mess. There was no need for it; the detective's stomach was empty. He watched helplessly as Lassiter weakly fought against his mutinous body.

As Lassiter choked, Shawn prayed for assistance to arrive. He had some first aid training, but this was significantly out of his league. The man needed a hospital and a neurologist. The strain of the head wound was extreme and Shawn was beginning to fear that it was more than a simple concussion.

The bout of dry heaves ended as quickly as they started and the detective's labored breaths filled the room.

"Wish I could offer you something to drink," Shawn said mildly. "Never did get the chance to pick up that pineapple smoothie."

Lassiter swallowed and blinked the moisture from his eyes. "Never had one."

"Really? I'll have to introduce you to their yummy deliciousness."

"No," Lassiter slurred as his eyes closed.

"Hey, you need to stay awake," Shawn called, suddenly very nervous. "You said that you'd try."

Lassiter exhaled slowly. "Can't. You tried your best, Shawn."

Shawn watched as the detective fell still once more. The man's last words deeply disturbed him. _No, not last words_. Shawn poked and prodded, but it was no use. Lassiter had lost consciousness once again, not responding to anything that Shawn did. _Coma?_ Shawn despaired. _Tried your best, Shawn. What the hell did that mean? _

Shawn angrily moved from his position. There was nothing he could do and the feeling of helplessness settled into the pit of his stomach. Cursing their luck, he forced himself to stop pacing and sit down next to Lassiter.

Lassiter's breaths were slow and shallow, and Shawn knew that the hours being locked in this room might have doomed him. For the first time, he had wished that he truly was the psychic that he had pretended to be. As foolish as his thoughts were, he wanted the comfort of knowing if Lassiter would recover or merely drift further away.

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**TBC**

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**A/N: **Ooo. Will help arrive in time? Will the boys ever get out?

A cookie for anyone that can guess that 15 letter word in the crossword puzzle. They are dark chocolate and mint and so very yummy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimers et al**-- See Chapter 1.

**Spoilers:** References made to the deleted scenes in "Bianca's Toast/Scary Sherry"

(Absolutely fantastic episode. Shame the deleted scenes were cut from the aired episode.)

**A/N:**. Within the last 8 months I've managed to purchase a house, move and renovate said house from top to bottom. It's been an incredibly chaotic period and left very little time for writing (or sleeping for that matter). I'd like to thank you all for your patience. I've greatly appreciated the reviews and comments. My apologies if I haven't responded back to all of the notes yet. I'm playing catch-up right now and will get to them as soon as I have the opportunity.

**Special Thanks!** An extra big "Thank you!" to my amazing beta, k, whose amazing-ness knows no bounds.

**Story Notes:** I've taken many, many medical liberties with this chapter. (Actually, much in the way that TV shows tend to do.)

**Summary:**** Recovery and resolutions. The long awaited Chapter 5.**

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**Title: Disoriented by- Miss Weather**

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**OoOo ****Chapter 5**** oOoO**

"_Your memory is a monster; you forget- it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory, but it has you!" John Irving._

Lassiter hovered somewhere in between wakefulness and sleep. He tried to focus his thoughts, but they spiraled and swirled just out of his reach. From what he could discern, he was ensconced in a lead-filled fog. It was an altogether foreign sensation, like he had been drained until there was nothing left to tap into.

A sharp poke to his arm jarred him from his comfortable haze. There was nothing he could do to subdue his mind back into its former blissful state of unconsciousness. It was simple: awake meant pain.

_Suffered enough for one lifetime, thank you very much._

But his body would not be deterred. Awareness of the world around him returned. His senses regained their acuity, hearing first. Garbled, muted voices slowly filtered through the fog that surrounded him.

_Huh? Laughter? _He listened patiently. _Definitely laughter_.

Loud chortles were followed by a series of giggles. He recognized the laugh instantly._ Spencer. _Lassiter tried to open his eyes, but it took too much , he opted to do nothing. His addled mind offered up only snippets of memories. Disjointed images of a cold concrete floor. Spencer worried and hovering over him. Nothing that would explain the laughter.

_They had been trapped. He had been injured. Then what? Were they still trapped in that damn room? _

Lassiter slowly moved his hand along something soft and warm. Definitely not the concrete floor in that storage room. _A bed --hospital bed_, he corrected himself.

He remembered now that had woken up before, couldn't remember how many times. The brief moments of semi, quasi-lucidness had included bright lights, pain, noisy nurses, and lots of questions. He desperately wanted to piece together his fragmented memories in quiet solitude. No witnesses. _Is that too much to ask?_

"Shut up, Spencer," he rasped.

"Hey, look who woke up like a Mister Grumpy Goat," Spencer replied, which immediately followed a loud "ow!"

"Shawn!" came a loud reprimand from a voice he hadn't heard in awhile. _O'Hara._

"Geez, Jules. Have I not been abused enough lately?" Spencer whined. "Being trapped with Lassie and all. Don't you think I've suffered enough?"

Lassiter's eyes snapped open of their own accord, though, it took several long moments for his vision to clear. Blinking, he was greeted by the sight of his partner, seated next to his bed. He briefly scanned the room and found Spencer and Guster sitting at the foot of the bed.

It was odd to see the three of them sitting vigil. This wasn't what he expected and he didn't quite know what to make of it. He came to a quick conclusion that his brain was too damaged to process this.

A gentle squeeze to his right hand brought his attention back to his partner. Smiling brightly at him, she asked, "Hi, Carlton, how are you feeling?"

_Good question_. Minus the nausea and buzzing in his head, he felt very little at the moment. It was curious sensation that he didn't know how to articulate. He could tell that his quietness was distressing her, as she tightened her grip on his hand.

"We've been so worried about you. The doctors weaned you off sedation drugs the other night and figured that you should wake up within the day." Her words were warm, but hesitant.

Lassiter coughed harshly as he tried to reassure her. His throat was just too dry to offer up verbal communication. Apparently sensing his problem, O'Hara held a small cup of water with straw in front of him. Too tired and thirsty to feel indignant, he acquiesced to the help, savoring the precious liquid. Once finished, he gave her a small smile of thanks.

Realizing how pathetic he must look to his audience, Lassiter slowly shifted into a more propped-up position. However, his body wasn't inclined to tolerate such an action. The room spun sharply as he moved his head. Squeezing his eyes shut with a groan, he tried to ride out this wave of vertigo without any further embarrassment.

"Carlton, are you… okay? Should I call for the nurse? Carlton?" O'Hara asked frantically.

He was forced to ignore her questions for the moment as he focused his attention on controlling his breathing. Several deep breaths later, the dizziness had subsided.

"Carlton?!" O'Hara's grip on his hand increased exponentially.

"Easy, Jules. Give Lassie a break. He just woke up."

"Shawn, look at him! He needs a nurse."

Not wanting to be the cause of that worried tone in her voice, he forced his eyes back open. He tried not to grimace as he saw the look of genuine fear on her face.

With a sigh, he offered her a soft, "I'm okay."

Recognizing that the whispered words weren't going to be enough, Lassiter reached over with to pat her hand. "O'Hara, I'm okay," he said, as firmly as he could manage given the situation.

"Oh really? You don't look it. Lie still and I think I'll go fetch a nurse," she reproached.

"I'm fine!" he barked,.

Not in the mood treated like an invalid, Lassiter tugged his hand from hers. Unfortunately, that little movement rekindled the deep ache within his head. Groaning, he pressed his hands against his bandaged head.

"Don't touch that," Spencer scolded from his seat across the room. "Tsk-tsk. And here you two thought I would be the one to rile him up. Give him some space, Jules."

O'Hara looked aghast. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't help it, I worry."

Lassiter dropped his hands from his head with a small sigh. The headache had already faded to a dull roar. "No harm, O'Hara."

"Good. I'm going to step out for a minute to have Doctor Singh paged," O'Hara announced as she rose from her seat. She leaned across the bed to give him a quick hug before leaving.

Lassiter glanced over at the room's other occupants. Both men were sitting at a small table near the foot of the bed. He ignored his fatigue for the moment; there were still several questions that he needed addressed. _Like how I got here for one_. He glanced sharply at Spencer, who was making balloon animals at the foot of his bed.

"So, what happened?" he asked.

Spencer tossed aside the dachshund that he had been playing with and moved his chair closer. The younger man seemed to be back to his usual antics. This Shawn Spencer was definitely more familiar to Lassiter than the subdued one that had kept him company in the warehouse.

"What do you remember?' Spencer asked.

He considered the question. His thoughts were still clouded, but not as much as before. The thick fog that had taken up residence in his mind had started to lift.

"Trapped in a storage room with you, but the details are a bit grey."

"Really? How grey?" Spencer asked with a cheeky smile.

Perturbed, he asked, "How'd we get out?"

"Oh, allow me to tell the story of my amazing feat of heroics."

"Shawn," Guster warned, punching Spencer's shoulder.

"Ow." Spencer whined as he rubbed his arm, "What is this Beat on Shawn Day? Okay. Okay!" he said as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "SB County Sheriffs arrived and saved the day. They were able to get to us once the roads reopened."

Lassiter sighed. "Oh. Okay. There's something else that I wanted to ask you, but I just can't seem to remember it."

"Hey, Gus, can you give us a minute?" Spencer asked in an unusually sober tone.

"Sure thing. Glad to see you're awake. You gave us quite a scare," Guster said with a smile as he walked out of the room.

There was an awkward pause as Lassiter stared Spencer. The other man's gaze flitted around the room. He was clearly avoiding eye contact.

"So, how are you really feeling?" Spencer asked.

"Confused, tired. Pretty sure my head isn't going to explode anymore. So, better."

Spencer smiled at the comment. "Good. You should feel better. They're pumping you full of painkillers at the moment," he said, gesturing to the nearby IV.

Lassiter nodded, idly scratching at the IV line taped to his hand. "Did they find Lewis or Brackett?" he asked.

Spencer shook his head, regret etched on his face. "No, not yet. The Feds don't believe they've left the country, but there haven't been any new sightings."

"Stolen guns?"

"Confiscated. They were apparently trying to screw over the buyers and things backfired on them. Lewis was involved from the beginning."

Lassiter simply nodded. Not that this mattered right now. He didn't feel well enough for this discussion. There would be plenty of time for him to reflect on the week's events and the various twists and turns that it had taken.

Luckily, their conversation was interrupted as his doctor entered the room. Spencer spotted the arrival of the doctor first and quickly stood to leave.

"Shawn, wait," he called out.

Spencer froze, clearly surprised by the use of his first name. _Who knew that would cause such a reaction?_ he wondered, enjoying the man's discomfort. Lassiter closely watched the man nod and sit down in nearby chair. He'd have to remember that tidbit for future occasions.

"Hello, Detective, Shawn," the older man said from his position at the side of Lassiter's bed. "We haven't been formally introduced yet. My name is Dr. Robert Singh and I'm a neurosurgeon here. I'd like to ask you some questions and perform a brief assessment."

Lassiter nodded his consent.

"What is your name?"

"Carlton Lassiter."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital. And from the logo on your coat, the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital."

"Good. I have three words that I would like you to remember: tire, bench and harmonica. Now, don't forget them."

As the doctor spoke, he checked Lassiter's pupil response with his penlight. Satisfied with his findings, he assessed reflexes and had Lassiter perform a series of movements with his arms, legs, and head. All of which left him tired and dizzy.

"Do you know what the month, date and year are?"

"Month is September, year is 2008 and date…" Lassiter's voice faded. "The last day I remember is the 12th."

"Good. Do not worry, Mr. Lassiter. Some memory loss is to be expected from incidents like that. It is September 16th. You've been under sedation following your surgery."

_Don't worry? Easy for him to say._ He sighed with a deep frown at the news of more lost time.

Satisfied with his assessment, Dr. Singh asked, "Now, Mr. Lassiter, do you remember my name?"

"Dr. Robert Singh."

"And what were the 3 words that I gave you to remember?"

"Tire, bench, harmonica."

"Excellent. You're making very good progress. How are you feeling this afternoon?"

"Tired and disoriented. Head aches a bit. Spencer was telling me about our rescue. How am I doing?" he asked.

"Good. It's not surprising that you're groggy and disoriented. We've been weaning you off the sedation drugs." Dr. Singh continued, "As to how you're doing, from a medical perspective, you've been making steady progress since your arrival. Mr. Lassiter, the bullet that hit you created a small skull fracture."

Lassiter nodded briefly, as he took in all of the information.

"We had to perform surgery to remove a small hematoma that had formed under the fracture, as well as to reduce the pressure that had been building around your brain from the swelling. We've kept you sedated for the last few days to alleviate that swelling. You are being given some strong painkillers to manage your headache."

He watched the doctor reach over to adjust something on the IV stand, felt the warmth of the drugs suppress the residual ache in his skull.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Good," Dr. Singh said. "We will be scheduling you for another CT scan tomorrow morning and there will be periodic neuro-assessments throughout the next couple of days. Until then, rest. And don't be surprised if some of the disorientation lingers. It's to be expected following the injury and sedation. The call button for the nurse is located next to your head. If you need something, just ask."

Lassiter nodded again, as the doctor added, "Your friends have ingratiated themselves with our nursing staff, so I'm sure that everyone will be happy to help out where they can."

"Thank you, Doctor," Lassiter replied. _His friends_. He was surprised that the idea made him smile.

Spencer smiled widely and waved to the departing surgeon. "See, I told you everything would work out. You just needed to trust in the psychic."

Lassiter grimaced . His memories may have been jumbled, but he clearly remembered doubting the younger man. Clearing his throat, he said, "I don't remember much of what happened in there..."

Spencer quickly interrupted, "Yeah, you were pretty out of it."

"I can't remember if I thanked you at all? But I have the feeling that I didn't."

He saw Spencer start to squirm in his chair. Lassiter couldn't help but marvel at the amount of energy that he possessed. He had once mentioned to O'Hara that the psychic would be the perfect "poster child" for ADHD meds for adults. Despite her frown and quick reprimand, he knew that she secretly agreed.

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Spencer interrupted again, "Yeah. Look, there's no need for that. I did nothing."

"Spencer," Lassiter groaned. He didn't have the energy or patience for an antsy Spencer. "Will you just shut up and listen?"

Satisfied that he wouldn't be interrupted further, he continued. "Good. I want to thank you. Don't make me regret this." He stretched his right hand out towards the other man.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, as he shook the young man's hand.

"No problem." Spencer smiled.

"And Spencer," Lassiter added softly, "if you pull a stunt like following me again, I will make it my duty to see that you never work on a case for the SBPD again. Understand?"

Lassiter watched as Spencer's smile rapidly faded to an unfamiliar expression. _Offended?_ _Exasperated? Disappointed? Perhaps a combination of the three. _He just couldn't tell.

After a few moments of staring at him, Spencer's grin returned full force. "I'll keep that in mind."

Lassiter rolled his eyes at that comment. "And here I was thinking that I may have misjudged you."

"Oh?" Spencer asked, mildly curious.

"You are the biggest pain in the ass that I've ever had to deal with…" He paused to enjoy the look of amusement on Spencer's face.

"Aw, Lassie, such flattery. You certainly know how to make me blush." He winked then moved his hands to his forehead. "Hmm. My psychic powers tell me a 'but' coming."

Lassiter shook his head in exasperation, "You're an ass, _but_ clearly you're not as useless as I thought you were."

Spencer laughed loudly at this. "Was that a compliment? Are we having a moment?"

"What? No." Lassiter frowned.

"This definitely feels like a moment."

"Shut up, Spencer," Lassiter grumbled as he closed his eyes. _Eyes closed. End of conversation._

Spencer chuckled. "Do you need a hug? I think we should hug. Complete the moment and all."

"No. Now, get out of here," he mumbled, eyes firmly closed,his voice losing volume as fatigue took over. _Damn_. The warmth of the meds flowing through his body made it impossible to muster up enough energy for histhreatening "I'm Head Detective" tone of voice.

He heard scrapping sounds, a chair sliding against the floor. "Okay, Okay. You win. I'm going to step out and grab a drink. You want anything?"

Without opening his eyes, he shook his head "no."

"You sure? They have an amazing cafeteria here. Banana puddings, smoothies, double chocolate brownies," Spencer persisted.

He forced his eyes open, giving the fake psychic an appraising glare. He was about to tell Spencer "No" and "Leave," but something made him hesitate. Perhaps it was painkillers, or the look of genuine decency in Spencer's expression. Or perhaps it had more to do with the hours that he'd spent lying on that damn concrete floor listening to the man prattle on and on. Whatever the reason, he reconsidered his original response.

"How about a pineapple smoothie?" he mumbled softly.

"A what?!"

"You heard me," Lassiter grumbled. He closed his eyes quickly as he saw that damn smirk appear.

"Got it," Spencer said with a laugh, "One pineapple smoothie. I think I can manage that."

**The End. **

* * *

_That's it folks!_ Thank you for reading this little exercise in h/c. It's been tremendous fun to write. So much fun that I may have to write a follow-up fic one of these days.

Once again, my apologies for this long hiatus!

As always, feedback, comments, and critique are welcome!


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